We were going about 70, near Quincy, when I lightly tapped my brakes. I was returning my oldest daughter to college in Boston, and the traffic up ahead was a red-light embolism.
I was totally unflustered, but she immediately shot all four limbs out like a transfenestrated cat fresh from a nap. I apologized for waking her up, and got to thinking about my own lack of adrenaline rush.
Years of commuting to grad school in Queens, NY from Connecticut stunted my adrenal glands years ago. I remember driving in those early days, when a car totally engulfed in flames was unnerving. By the fifth semester I was vaguely uneasy until I saw a Sternomobile. I guess my unease was due to the idea that it was unlikely my car would spontaneously combust if it was already someone else’s turn. One per semester seemed to be the average.
You can tell experienced metro NYC drivers from amateurs by how they react to flaming cars. The panicky rookies freak out, pounding on their cell phones, and wildly gesticulating like traffic cops with Tourette’s. The old pros yawn, shrug their shoulders and adjust their rearview mirrors.
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